I’ve been walking in peace this year, allowing sadness to mingle with happiness.

I knew what to expect at the ceremony, so I figured I would be fine.

But that darn candle lightning ceremony — the walking up all alone, the lighting of the candle, the saying of her name, the glitter, the wish — oh, it just slammed into me. I tried to breathe. I didn’t want to cry. I turned to walk back, focusing on the flame of my candle. I made the mistake of making eye contact with my dear friend and support person, Amanda, as I lit her candle.

And I was done.

I sat down and cried hard, snot and tears and mascara flowing. A dear birthmom friend to my right hugged and held me. When another returned from her lighting to my left, there was more hugging and touching and general supporting. I am thankful for those who love me even when I ugly cry.

I am a sucker for ceremony, for tradition, for outward expressions of the emotions we feel.

To quietly say her name, to stand in front of everyone and participate, to honor her in a quiet moment of visibility, to wish the world for her, to stand up for her… it means a lot to me. I cannot adequately explain why it is important to me. Perhaps it’s the same reason why baptizing the boys was important — an outward manifestation of my dedication toward being the best I can be for these children. That’s the best I can come up with really.

The emotional crash after the ceremony has been daunting. I’m hoping a good night’s sleep will leave me with energy and space to live in the moments of tomorrow.

I won’t say “Happy” Birthmother’s Day, but I will tell you that I wished each and every one of you who shares this title with me a feeling of peace. It’s what I wish and pray and hope for all of us, no matter our story or our journey.

I went to the Birthmother’s Day event in Cleveland at Adoption Network Cleveland (who has no ties to ANLC, by the way, and is not an agency but an awesome resource). I didn’t want to go. Jaime made me. I drug my feet. I panicked a few times on the way up this morning. I felt in my shut-down daze as we walked in the door, unable to make eye contact with anyone as I waited for our group to get registered and seated.

But I put my brave face on.

I was a little weepy here and there as the ceremony started. I held hands with Jaime as her mom talked. I passed tissues. I wiped a few stray tears. But brave face was on. I wasn’t going to lose it. I’m eight years in. I am a voice in the adoption community. I am a strong, independent woman. I hate crying in public and will go to all ends not to experience it.

And then came the candle lighting ceremony. Each birth mother went forward to light their candle on the main candle and put glitter in the communal water bowl for our children. I was fine. I was fine. I was fine. And then I was not fine. I lost it. I sat back down and tried to stifle my cry. I am not a quiet cryer. When I cry, I make a low moan type sound and when I try to stifle it, it sounds awful. And I couldn’t make it stop. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to cry quietly. I wanted not to be crying. But I was.

And these two ladies held my hands as they cried too… for their own children, for our losses, for our joined sisterhood.

I have long hated Birthmother’s Day. Ever since that first one when I realized that the rest of society doesn’t recognize it and those that do, usually in the adoption community, want me to only have that day. That train of thought is the turn off. What happened today was not some bull created by an agency to put me in my place. It was not an alternative to Mother’s Day. It was about Us.

Today was about our loss. It was a communal recognition of our loss. It was the sisterhood of birthmothers standing together and proclaiming that we are not less than. We have lost. We grieve. We are sad. We are not silent anymore. We love our children. We never forget. That community, as we stood together reciting the Statement of Purpose together, was something that I needed. Again, I didn’t know I needed it. But I did.

I have always had a community online. I have always celebrated that community. But to have someone hold me — someone who fully understands the loss and the grief and the guilt and everything else — as I cried… that was something beyond special.

Tomorrow — Mother’s Day — is about joy. I’ll kiss my boys and call Dee and my Mom and my mother-in-law and all that jazz. I will get blueberry pancakes and a nice dinner. I will relax. I will revel in my day — for all of my children. But today? Today I stood with women and acknowledged the loss in a respectful, ceremonial way. They are separate days. And I’m okay with that … this year. I still reserve the right to not be in a place where I can participate at any given time/year, but yes, I needed it this year. (And, no, I wouldn’t have been ready last year.)

I wrote about Birthmother’s Day for BlogHer today and I maintain that the community aspect is what makes it a day for me. I’ll never say “Happy Birthmother’s Day” to anyone, because that’s not what it is for me. But I will wish birthmothers everywhere — whether they acknowledge today or not — peace for this weekend. It’s a hard weekend and it involves a realization of that loss whether you stand with others or not. You are all in my heart.

And it’s mainly based in this video created by CocktailDeeva that she also was kind enough to share with BlogHer for the Own Your Beauty campaign. Watch it. (It’s the clean lyrics version, so feel free to watch it with the youngster of your choice.)

When I think of the Munchkin dealing with issues of the variety shared in that video, I can’t help but cry. Because, my God, she’s perfect. To me. To her Mom. To those that know and love her. She is perfect. And to know that she will someday doubt that? Because of the words of someone else? Or self doubt? Or because of a boy? Or because of… me… and my choices? I hate it all.

I want to take her by the shoulders — gently — and tell her that she is never less than. That she was always wanted. That she is beautiful. She is strong. She is crazy intelligent. She is an amazing soul. She is something, someone to be proud of.

And even if I did, at seven she is still too young to understand the battles she will face. She is still too young to understand what lies ahead, what awaits her as she grows into the amazing woman I know she will be. She is still too young to understand any of that…

And then there’s the deeper, more verklempt part of me that knows that if she ever is in trouble, she’s not coming to me first. I understand that and respect it for what it is. I also recognize her Mom’s fabulous ability to handle the issues that the Munchkin will throw at her (because? she will). But there’s that inner-ouch that I won’t always know when a Mean Girl tells her that her skirt is so-last-year. Or when a boy breaks her heart. Or when she’s having a bad body image day.

And speaking of those, I just wish I could shield her from all of that. Because girls are going to be jealous of her. And they’re going to say mean things out of jealousy. And she’s going to take some to heart. And she’s going to look in the mirror and fail to see the amazing beauty staring her back in the face. And that kills me. And it would be the same if she was in my house or someone else’s. And I think that sucks… for the Munchkin, for mothers everywhere, for girls everywhere. I hate our society of unrealistic beauty.

I hope she’s able to understand that there is more to life than labels. I’ve tried so very hard to not be defined by my role as birth mother. Or just as a mother. Or just as a writer. Or just as photographer. I am so so so so many things. And I hope that she is able to embrace that as well.

I hope that as she grows and fails and succeeds and questions and fights and loves and rebels and becomes who she is… that she knows… somewhere in her core… that she is and will be an amazing woman. I have less control over that than most mothers. And all I can do is remind her, when asked and otherwise, that she is perfect to me.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t raised to know how to properly care for my hair. My mom’s hair is stick straight. In fact, before my mother even realized that I had natural curl, she permed my hair. It was the 80′s. Everyone permed their hair. However, despite adding curl to my hair, she didn’t teach my how to do my hair. It wasn’t until a friend who was already in middle school made fun of me, in church no less, that I learned I wasn’t doing my hair the right way. “You don’t brush a perm!” I still remember that day in the parking lot, her frizzy blonde permed hair looking like everyone’s 80′s prom night dream. My brushed, brown crimpy hair blew in the breeze. I vowed that no one would make fun of me again for my hair… after it grew out.

I wore my hair straight (after that perm grew out) until one day during my senior year of high school. I was running late for musical practice one Saturday morning. I decided to just leave the house with my hair wet, having no time to put my straightening cream in it or dry it ever-so-carefully. By the time I got to practice, it was curling. Friends of mine were in awe. I began wearing my hair curly or straight on an alternating basis whenever I so chose, proud of my ability to have chameleon like hair. I did this through most of college except for those times when a boy would break up with me and I would chop it to well above my ears. (I suppose that’s a post for another day.)

I can say that I have straightened my hair almost everyday for the past six years. My husband always loved when I would not have the time or effort to straighten it, claiming that it looked lovely curly. I didn’t believe him, that teasing comment from my elementary school days sticking with me. When the humidity hit earlier this month, I couldn’t straighten my hair. Even with the most expensive straightening cream and far too long with a hair dryer in a hot bathroom, it would begin to curl. Even as the lady cutting my hair would spray my hair wet, the curls would be popping up in the middle of the haircut. I gave up. I have, for the past month, worn my hair curly.

But it’s not only because of the humidity.

I learned that someone in my daughter’s life made a comment about her curls in a negative manner. She was apparently told that she would look “beautiful with straight hair like everyone else.” I wanted to spit nails when I learned of this ridiculousness. She has the most gorgeous hair I’ve ever seen, even though I’m slightly biased. It’s just gorgeous hair. Who says that to a child with curly hair? I can’t imagine saying to the boys, “Gee, your eyes would look better if they were another color.” Or, “I bet you’d look much cuter if you had curlier hair like that boy in your class!” Why should we teach our kids that they need to be like everyone else? Once my anger subsided, I didn’t think about it.

Until I was angry with my own hair for curling.

And then it smacked me in the face: wasn’t I sending much the same message by constantly straightening my own hair? I’ll be honest: I’m not sure the Munchkin even knows that I have curly hair. In all of the pictures I have with my daughter, my hair is straight. As I thought of this and the statement that had been made to her about her hair, I started to feel guilty. Have I contributed to the problem? Will she look to me at some point and say, “Well, she didn’t like her curls either so why should I?”

I often think that I am exempt from the issues that plague our growing girls. I have never read the book Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: How the Quest for Perfection is Harming Young Women by Courtney E. Martin even though so many other moms of daughters have read to prepare themselves for what’s to come with regard to raising their daughters. I thought I didn’t have to read the book because, well, she won’t turn to me or look to me for advice on such topics. Will she? Or will she? I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about my constant struggle with food and weight, my issues with my own hair type and my tendency toward self-hatred and how they will affect my daughter because, well, she’s not under my roof. Surely she won’t pick up on the fact that I hate my thighs, am constantly on a diet and don’t really like my hair in its natural state. Will she? Or will she?

As I pondered these questions over the past month of curly hair living, I felt pretty bad. Have I been setting a poor example of a strong, independent woman for my daughter? Have I been setting a poor example of a strong, independent woman for my parented sons? I felt that was the case. Add on the guilt of Things I Have Done Wrong as a Mother.

As I’ve spent the past month embracing my curls, I’ve been wondering how I can better show my children, all of them, how to be content in your own skin. Or hair. I’m not quite sure what the balance is on these things. How much time is too much time at the gym or exercising? When does it cross the line from being healthy to being obsessed? When does straightening your hair for a different look cross the line into trying to deny who you really are? How much makeup is too much makeup? When does a diet stop being a quest to being healthy and an unhealthy obsession with food? And how do I raise my children or, in Munchkin’s case, show my children from afar to be comfortable with themselves?

I ponder all of these as I slowly reteach myself how to work with curly hair. I am so thankful that my daughter’s mom did the research and has taken such wonderful care of the Munchkin’s hair. I’m sure she will teach her to do her own hair well as she grows and becomes more independent. I hope when she asks me why I straightened my hair for all those years that I can come up with an answer that makes sense. I hope that by working toward becoming happy in my own skin that I can show her that she’s beautiful just the way she is. I hope that I can teach my sons that they are amazing the way that they are and that beauty, their own or a partner’s, is more than skin deep.

By the way, Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters: How the Quest for Perfection is Harming Young Women is on sale for $6.00 on Amazon right now. Bargain price, indeed.

For a very long time I was defined by the title of Birth Mother. Or First Mother. Or however you want to spell it, space it or say it. I was defined by it and I couldn’t get out of the box that definition provided. More over, I needed to be defined by that title for a time. However, I couldn’t see when I no longer needed that definition to rule my life.

When I was considering placement, I didn’t know to be ashamed of my decision. It wasn’t until the immediate aftermath in the hospital and the way our Pastor treated both me and my family that I realized that birth mothers are not applauded like the pro-life camp would have you believe. I was shunned. I was cursed at, told that I was a horrible human being for “giving my baby away.” As such, I found a need to reinvent the title and role of birth mother. I needed to be seen as a remarkable human being who endured a tough choice and came out on top. I needed people to see that I wasn’t a crackwhore, that I wasn’t a slut. I needed people to validate my decision and I needed to validate the title of birth mother all at the same time.

As the walls began to crumble around my denial, the realities of my decision settling like dust into every corner of my life, I found that I couldn’t get away from the title. I began to feel this intensely after my firstborn son was home and hungry for my parenting knowledge. Here I was, mothering this tiny (though, he wasn’t ever tiny, was he?) little baby boy and I was still being ruled by the title of birth mother. But I was a mother! And I wanted to be recognized as one! And most people did. I, instead, was unable to accept my new role as mother as a separate title. I was unable to separate parts of my life. While they are twined together in some fashion, they are also remarkably different roles. My grief was affecting my parenting and, looking back, I am able to admit that fact. I don’t like it, like that it is part of my history, but it did.

Once in therapy, I was able to begin separating from the title of birth mother. As I learned the many facets of who I was, I didn’t need to be The Best Birth Mother In The History of All Birth Mothers. I spent less time online arguing with people who felt threatened by my presence in the adoption world. I spent less time being angry with an unethical agency that will never change. I spent less time comparing myself to other mothers, finding validation my son’s smile, in his love. I spent more time listening to my husband and less time listening to those who needed to cut me down to validate their own life story. I needed professional help to get to that point, to let go of things, to move forward and enjoy my life as a whole, not just as a part.

I am not just a birth mother. In fact, I am not just a mother. Not just a wife. A daughter. A friend. A writer. A singer. I am so many things in so many ways. I am proud of how all of those things come together to make me… me. No one has lived this life that I’m living. They may have made similar decisions. We may have strikingly similar stories even. But this is me. This is my life, my decisions, my unique journey.

I am not just a birth mother though I always will be. I am not just a mother though I always will be. I have learned to merge roles, to set them aside when I need to be someone else for a moment. I have learned to accept how my roles have formed me but still know that they don’t define me.

I may be a birth mother but I’m so much more. So much more.

I didn’t send a card. The boys did. I helped my oldest son write his name and a message. The letters he writes on his own aren’t quite letters yet. And I helped my youngest son hold the purple marker and scrawl out his name as well. He loves to make marks on paper. Or our chalkboard in the playroom. Until he decides that he wants to eat the chalk. All the same, the boys sent a simple construction paper card.

But I did not.

I buy Munchkin’s cards whenever I find one that says something that I want to say. Years and years ago, you know, five of them, I asked her Mom if it was appropriate for me to buy birthday cards with the word “daughter” on them. She gave me the go ahead and I have been doing that for five years now. I mean, I had the card this year. I had it pulled out when I wrapped up the present. But I didn’t sign it. And I didn’t place it in the package. And I left it sitting on our table for two days after the package was sent before I retired it to the box where I keep all of our cards.

Early on, I suppose, it was important to me to be able to refer to her as daughter. It was important to me for her to know that I was a mother to her in some form or fashion. It is not as if that inner need has magically disappeared exactly. My inability to send the card this year is also not based on the whole alleged confusion factor that those against open adoption want to blame for the faults of the world.

It’s very strange.

Parenting these boys has changed me in so many ways. I see things a bit differently. As an example, I do not need to buy either of them cards with the word “son” plastered all over in order for them to understand who I am to them and what I do for them at any given time. Maybe I’m hoping that the Munchkin views me in the same way. She does know who I am and I hope that, in time, she realizes what I do for her. It is not that I do not feel that she is my daughter or that I do not feel as if I am a mother to her in some form or fashion. Perhaps it is more of a point where I am falling into place with my role in her life. I am finding a comfort level in how she views me, how she responds to me and how she speaks with me. Maybe that fear that she won’t ever recognize me as a mother is dissipating five long years later.

I don’t know the specific reasons. But I didn’t send the card. I willfully made the decision. And, yes, part of me feels guilty even though the rational part of me understands the complex reasonings behind that decision.

All the same, she will always be my one and only daughter. And I’m finding peace in that fact.

I asked her Mom yesterday about the time of her first day so I could send a card and something small. And then I started thinking about what that something small would be. And I realized that sometimes I don’t like being the birth mom. I find it hard to wrap my mind around what she wants and likes and needs when I am so far removed. Also, perhaps because I am now parenting boys, I just have a hard time even looking at gifts for girls.

I get overwhelmed at Easter and Christmas when all the froofy dresses are out for display and purchase. I cannot walk down the Barbie aisle. The pink overwhelms me and sends me into some catatonic state of unfeeling for the rest of the day. Girl stuff seems so foreign to me. Which is strange, as I am female and actually like pink things (though my favorite color has changed to green). I am not opposed to the idea of dolls and girly things. But, especially when I am shopping specifically for the Munchkin, I get extremely overwhelmed.

Perhaps I just expect to be able to know her better. To just instinctively know what she would like. To be able to know what size she would need, as sizes differ from brand to brand, by holding up a shirt and guesstimating her size. I can’t do those things. I don’t have that close, intimate relationship that she has with her Mom. I live on the outside. And most days that is okay as I am still allowed into the fold. But when it comes to buying gifts, I find myself frustrated. I want to know my daughter better. I want to know what she likes and eyeball her size and just better relate to her.

All the same, I haven’t yet found a good Back To (Pre)School present for her yet. And I’m still looking. Ideas?

I should be happy that my Husband isn’t working on Mother’s Day. I should be elated that we can spend the day together as an immediate family. I should be excited to have these moments with my boys, with my Husband. And on the one hand, I am! I’m a blessed Mama. There’s no doubt about that, if you ask me. I made it through both of those (complicated) pregnancies with most of my health in tact. My boys are healthy. True, one is going through the AWFUL TWOS (terrible doesn’t begin to describe what’s been going on lately) and one has decided that naps are so last month but they’re awesome. (And cute to boot.) And I already know what my Husband got me for Mother’s Day (it so rocks) and I’ll be honored to open it.

But then there’s the other hand.

I miss her. I always miss her. But there are days when her absence physically hurts. Mother’s Day is one of those days. I thought it would get easier after my boys were born and I could stand up in church when they asked the Mothers to stand and not have eyebrows raised. But it hasn’t gotten easier. In fact, in many ways, Mother’s Day has become increasingly more difficult.

Maybe it’s the way I know that my boys’ eyes light up when I walk into a room (most of the time). Or maybe it’s the way one says “I love you” with words and the other says it with smiles and smooshy-faced kisses full of slobber and tongue. Maybe it’s the way I know that, as of right now, I am the center of their lives even if various grandparents are cooler at times. I’m the one that they cry for at three o’clock in the morning. It’s me. I’m the Mom. And on certain days of the year, the reality that I am not her Mom hits me hard. I accept it, of course, as you can’t change reality. But it doesn’t change the fact that it hurts.

And so I try to find a balance in my two hands. I try not to look too sad. I try to be happy enough. I try to make memories to cherish for a lifetime. But there are always the two hands. There’s always a Munchkin missing. There’s always an empty spot at the table, in my heart.

And it won’t ever change. That’s the rub.

I like knowing these things about my children.

On the forums once, an adoptive Mother was upset that her child’s birth mother kept making comparisons between the placed child and her parented child. I don’t know how you wouldn’t. As a mother who is actively parenting two children, I see the differences and samenesses every single day. While I don’t hold one to the other’s standard, because I do believe that can be harmful, I love having a brain and heart full of memories to say, “Oh yeah! Remember when BigBrother did this? Or that?”

An example. BigBrother was short and wide as a baby. LittleBrother is long and lean. They weighed in at exactly the same weight at their four month appointments but LittleBrother is two inches longer than BigBrother was at the same time. I think that’s a unique difference to explore. I can see the differences in their pictures. BigBrother had cheeks OUT TO THERE. And LittleBrother can’t wear any of BigBrother’s footed sleepers because of his excessive length. It makes me laugh.

I won’t expect LittleBrother to do everything at the same time. He’ll have his own timeline. And I will respect and appreciate his growth and development. And I’m not sure why it has to be any different with my oldest yet placed child.

She does some awesome things. So does BigBrother. And so will LittleBrother. Why can’t I rejoice in any of their sameness? Why can’t I smile when BigBrother lines all of his toys up in a line and think, “Oh, she used to do that, too!” Why can’t I laugh at their funny words and think, “Munchkin used to say it this way?” Why can’t I ask how she handled some developmental milestones just so I can have an inkling of what to expect? Not that BigBrother or LittleBrother have to follow in her shoes but, here’s the truth folks, parents are all flying by the seat of their pants. ANYTHING that lets me know what may or may not happen is a great, great help. You know, I know it.

I rejoice in the samenesses and differences in all of my children. I won’t stop thinking of my daughter when it comes to these things. I am so very proud of all of her accomplishments. (Recently, she fell in love with a trumpet!) And I am so very proud of my boys. As long as I’m not telling one or the other to act in x-manner because y-kid did z-thing, I don’t think I’m harming any of them. I think by rejoicing in those accomplishments (and commiserating in their struggles), I’m doing all of my children a great service.

Because who doesn’t want to know that someone is proud of them? And what parent doesn’t want to know that they’re not alone in the struggles?

All of my children are awesome. I am such a blessed mama.

As my loyal readers know, I’ve been in therapy for awhile now to deal with a lot of the anger, guilt, grief, loss and so on that are associated with my placing the Munchkin for adoption. Nothing is “resolved,” of course and I don’t expect to one day wake up and no longer feel the after-effects of relinquishment. What we work on is coping with these issues in an appropriate and healthy manner. It’s been a long, arduous process, of course. As of last year, I still managed to flub up some issues in our relationship as I didn’t appropriately handle my own anxiety or communicate it in the proper manner. After that not-so-awesome experience, my therapist really worked with me on avoiding a similar issue.

I’m gonna buy her a cookie. After I buy myself something nice.

Again, I’m not going to be specific. But, suffice it to say, I received some not-super-awesome news. Instead of flipping out and saying things I would regret, I calmly replied. I put myself in the shoes that were being worn for a moment. I considered what I would do in a similar situation. I considered my own family. I considered what I would want for my children. And I responded in an authentically supportive manner. No anger. Honesty. Open communication.

I feel pretty darn proud of myself. I mean, the situation itself isn’t resolved. I’m praying for it a lot. I’m worried about various aspects. But I trust the people involved in it. And, surprisingly, I now trust myself to deal with it on my end. I didn’t fly off the handle. I didn’t say something I regret. I didn’t make someone feel bad for being human and doing the right thing with a difficult situation. I’m kind of sad, yes, but so are the people involved. So that’s not even unique to me.

I put in a lot of work in therapy this past year. I was wondering if it had helped. I was wondering if I would still become impulsive and say stupid things when presented with hard situations. And the work paid off. Honestly? I have tears in my eyes. Unless you’ve been through similar therapy to work through how you respond to situations that are completely out of control, I don’t know if I can actually explain to you how … great? … it feels to see the result of your hard work.

I’ve always talked about open and honest communication. I’ve always talked about respect. I’ve always talked about considering the other side of the coin before lashing out. But I’ve had my own missteps in that process. It’s hard. I mean, not just in open adoption but any relationship. I’ve even noticed myself calming when my Husband gets called out to a fire on Christmas Eve (yes). Some of this “crap” that I deal with is SIMPLY OUT OF MY CONTROL. And learning to accept it has been difficult. Learning to be gracious about what I cannot change is even harder.

But I’ve made progress. And dang if I don’t think that I deserve to treat myself to something new and nice.

I feel proud. Strong. And hopeful. I had hoped I could make it to this point by the time the next “issue” arose. (Because issues will arise, folks. Can’t avoid them.) And I’m hopeful that I’ll just continue to make progress by the time the next issue arises. Progress. It’s good food.

(Thank you for putting up with a vague post!)